What to write, oh what to write

Thursday night, hmmmmmmmmmmm, what to write about.

Should I examine the immigration debate that we’ve heard at nauseum the last few days? Nope.

What about the sublimely ridiculous Cynthia McKinny and her run in with DC police? Nope, too easy.

What about the debate between Ward Churchill and David Horowitz taking place tonight at George Washington University and the sordid display that followed on Hannity & Colmes? Promising but ultimately boring.

Then there’s the war in Iraq…No.

Education…Huh?

What about the two samaritan New York City police officers who were convicted of murder today? Now we’re talking but there’s little satirical fodder there.

What about the three ski patrol members who fell into a volcanic fissure at Mammoth Mountain Resort in California? The best yet but a bit raw to mock/lampoon.

I could talk about the papers Scooter Libby says prove Bush leaked or OK’d the leaking of Valerie Plame’s true identity…hell no.

Then there’s this little gem. A 65-year old unmarried Russian man has devised a way to take his porn stash with him when he shuffles his mortal coil…Bingo!

I love a good story that revolves around obsession for smut. It makes me all tingly and giddy.

Inspired by my new hero, Vladimir Villisov, I bring you my coffin, complete with a way to take my porn with me…

The outside is a muted gray with metallic flakes and is adorned with a Denver Broncos sticker, a Colorado Avalanche picture (preferably Joe Sakic), a Colorado Buffaloes logo, and a “Do not Disturb” placard. The casket is lined with purple velvet to denote my position as King of My Domain (you Seinfeldniks should be chuckling right about now), and a tasteful white pillow to show of my golden locks. In the lid will be a drop down plasma screen TV that will show streaming video of Super Bowl XXXII, Mary Carry’s Greatest Hits, and The Holy Grail (the scene where Lancelot storms the castle of the virgins will be on a continual loop). A video game consol will be graveside so those who mourn my passing can play Madden or Halo while they pay their collective respects. Captain Morgan & Coke will flow freely from a tap perched majestically atop my headstone. As a pis det resistance my epitaph will read either, “Ouch! Your standing on my head shit-for-brains!”, or, “What the hell are you looking at?”, or, “Is it a skoch drafty in here?”, or, “Damn, I can see right up her skirt!”